Two Trains Running

by Andrew Vachss

  Harley Grant looked over at a tall, rail-thin man in doeskin dress slacks and a black Ban Lon short-sleeved shirt, which displayed pipestem forearms that tapered to narrow wrists and pianist’s hands. He was fox-faced, with a night-dweller’s complexion and feral eyes. His dark hair was combed into a high pompadour.

  The man was playing alone, beneath a large NO GAMBLING sign. Harley watched him lightly tap a solid-red ball into a side pocket—the cue ball hopped slightly, then gained traction and flew backward, caromed off two cushions, and settled in the same place it had started from. The shooter stalked the table, eyeing the green felt with the hyper-focused concentration of a diamond cutter; his split-second hesitation at the full extension of each metronomic backstroke reminded Harley of a round being chambered.

  “Yeah,” he said, expressing no interest. “So?”

  “That’s R. L. Hollister, Harley. They call him Cowboy.”

  “Who calls him Cowboy?”

  “Everybody does. Supposed to be the best one-pocket man east of K.C.”

  “Yeah? Well, I never heard of him.”

  “Which of the top players have you heard of, Harley? Shooting stick, that’s not your game.”

  “Fair enough, Benny. But I know enough to know if you recognized him other people will, too. So how’s he going to make any money here?”

  “The Cowboy’s no hustler,” Benny said, almost indignantly. “He’s a professional. Like the men who sit in on the big stud game at Toby Jesperson’s club. They don’t come in wearing disguises; they come to take the other guy’s money, right out in the open.

  “That’s the beauty of the games Mr. Beaumont runs, Harley. You guys supply the dealer, you supply the cards, the tables . . . everything. So a man can concentrate on playing without worrying about someone pulling a fast one. The house takes its tolls from the pot, so it doesn’t care who wins. Nice and clean. People come from all around just to—”

  “That’s poker, Benny. Not pool. We don’t have anything like that for—”

  “But you could, right?” the pudgy man said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Harley, I’m kind of . . . sponsoring, I guess you call it, a little tournament here. Starts Wednesday night. In the back room, I got a brand-new Brunswick table. Just the one. It’s absolutely perfect, that table. Dead level. Nobody’s ever played on it, not one rack.”

  “How are you going to have a tournament on one table?”

  “That’s just for the championship. The final match. See, every player antes five hundred bucks, and they play double elimination.”

  “Benny . . .” Harley’s face matched the “get to it” tone of his voice.

  “Okay, look, I’ll make it simple. Nine-ball. Race to five. Nine racks, max. First guy to win five games, he moves on. You lose two matches, you’re out. And the action’s quick. Just the way people like it.”

  “What’s the prize?”

  “Five grand for the winner,” Benny said, flushing with pride as Harley raised his eyebrows, “and a deuce for the guy who comes in second. Whatever they want to side-bet between them, that’s their business. But we’ll have a board up here, too, so anyone can get a bet down, anytime he wants.”

  “With you?”

  “Well, they place the bets with us, but they’re really betting against themselves. Parimutuel, like at the track. See, we keep the records, we hold the money, and we make the payouts. So we—”

  “—take your piece off the top.”

  “Exactly! Just like when you run a dice game. Only, here, we’re the house, see?”

  “When were you planning to tell us about this, Benny?”

  “Today!” the pudgy man exclaimed, one hand over his heart. “You always come Mondays, don’t you? Listen, Harley, this could be big. Action like what we’re planning on, it brings people in. The place will be packed for a week. And the back room, it’s all fixed up special. Wait’ll you see it. Got this beautiful blue carpet on the floor, a couple of girls to serve drinks, leather chairs to sit on, everything. People’ll be proud to pay twenty-five bucks, have a ringside seat for a championship match like this one. Tell their kids they once saw Cowboy Hollister himself play. The final, it’s going to be five games. Five sets of games, I mean. First man to win three sets, the money’s his. We can handle bets on every game. Hell, every shot, if people want. We’ve even got a little kitchen back there. When people drink, they want to eat.”

  “You’ve been planning this a long time.”

  “A real long time. Harley, I’m telling you, the day will come when Benny’s Back Room—that’s what I’m calling it—is famous. Just like Ames’s in Chicago or Julian’s in New York.”

  “How much is it going to cost you?”

  “Cost me? I’m going to be making a bundle. You’ll see, when you get your cut.”

  “How much did it cost you, get this Cowboy guy to come and play?”

  The pudgy man took off his steel-framed glasses and polished them with a clean white handkerchief. “I can see why people say what they say about you, Harley.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “That you’re going be the boss around here someday.”

  “Try it without the Vaseline, Benny. Just tell me what I asked you.”

  “Five,” the pudgy man said, not meeting Harley’s eyes.

  “You mean you paid his entry fee, or you . . . ?”

  “Five large. But, look, Harley, it’s an investment, okay? You know how many boys, think they’re holding hot sticks, already entered? Thirty-one, and we still got two more days to sign people up.”

  “That’s fifteen five, and you’re paying out twelve,” Harley said, acknowledging the wisdom of the math.

  “Not counting our cut of the wagering pool, the money from the drinks and the food, and . . . we’ll make another bundle just from tickets to see the final. I’m telling you, Harley, this thing’s a mortal lock.”

  Harley lit a cigarette, leaned back, and exhaled a puff of smoke, thumb under his chin. He was the very image of a man considering a complex proposition, wanting to be scrupulously fair about it. “If this guy is so great, how come so many people want to try him?” he finally said.

  “A guy I knew in the army, he once fought Sonny Liston.”

  “Yeah?” Harley said, drawn in despite himself. “What happened?”

  “What happened? Sonny knocked him out, what do you think happened? Only man ever to beat Sonny was Marty Marshall, and that was when Sonny got a broken jaw in the middle . . . and he still finished the fight, lost on points. Now, Marshall, he could bang. But when Sonny got him back in the ring, six months later, it was lights-out for that boy.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Benny?”

  “Jesus, Harley, don’t you get it? Just being in the ring with Sonny Liston, that’s something that you can brag on forever. Makes you special. Sonny, he’s going to be world champion as soon as he gets a title fight. Nobody beats him, so it ain’t no disgrace to lose to him, see? I love that guy. Why, it’d be an honor just to shake his hand, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, okay, I get it,” Harley said, thinking, Be an honor just to shake his hand, huh? Long as it’s not happening in your living room. Maybe Kitty’s right. No matter how big I ever got in Locke City . . .

  “Well,” Benny continued, “if you’re a pool player, that’s what playing Cowboy Hollister would be like. Now, I don’t mean a pro player. Some of them, I’m sure, they think they can take him, any given night. And with a game like nine-ball, they could be right. But when it comes to one-pocket—”

  “Uh-huh,” Harley said, absently, looking around the poolroom.

  “Someday, people are going to talk about the great matches they seen in Benny’s Back Room like they talk about when they seen Stan Musial go up against—”

  “You’ve been real up-front about all this, Benny.”

  “You know I’d never do nothing without what I cleared it with you, Harley. But, see, I knew you’d love t
his.”

  “That’s a lot of money you’ll have around, Benny. Are you going to need any extras?”

  “Nah. Everybody knows this place has Mr. Beaumont’s protection. Who’d be crazy enough to try and rob us?”

  “Somebody who was crazy,” the younger man said.

  “Well . . . maybe you’re right. We’re not that far from the South Side. Can I get a couple of men for finals night?”

  “We’ll send you three,” Harley said. “Two at the usual rate, the other on the house.”

  “Hey, thanks, Harley!”

  “Yeah. The third man, we’ll put him right on the cashbox. All night long. Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Put six men on it, all I care,” the pudgy man said, grinning. “I’m not doing this for the money.”

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 11:23

  * * *

  “I was just trying to be a gentleman,” Mickey Shalare said into the phone. “I asked for the meeting, so it’s only right that I come to you, at your convenience.”

  “Is tomorrow afternoon all right with you?” Royal Beaumont replied, his voice as steel-cored courteous as the Irishman’s.

  “Well, that would be fine indeed. Anytime at all, just say the word.”

  “Four o’clock?”

  “Just the time I would have chosen for myself.”

  “Anything special I can have for you here? What do you drink?”

  “Ah, Mr. Beaumont,” Shalare said, chuckling, “if you have to ask that question, I can tell you’re not familiar with my reputation.”

  “Oh, I think I am,” Beaumont said. “Do you need directions to my place?”

  “I surely do,” Shalare said. “I know it’s way out in the country, somewhere, but I could be wandering around for hours. You won’t mind if I bring a driver? He wouldn’t be sitting in on our meeting, of course.”

  “Bring whoever you like,” Beaumont said. “We’ll take care of them.”

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 11:38

  * * *

  “Daddy Moses, could I talk to you?”

  “You can always talk to me, gal. You know that.”

  Rosa Mae scuffed the toe of her flat-heeled white shoe against the just-vacuumed mauve carpet that covered the eighth-floor hallway. She looked at her shoes as if fascinated by the sight.

  “What is it, child?” Moses asked her. “You in some kind of trouble?”

  “No. I’m not . . . No! I wouldn’t never—”

  “There’s all kinds of trouble,” the elderly man said, soothingly. “I wasn’t thinking about . . . what you was.”

  “I . . . I need to ask your advice about something. But I’m a little scared.”

  “Scared of Moses? How that going to be? You know I’m—”

  “That’s what I mean!” Rosa Mae said, plaintively. “You’re like a father to me. Since I come to work here, you always look out for me, and . . .”

  “And what, child?”

  “And I couldn’t bear it if you was to think . . . if you didn’t think I was doing right.”

  “You call me ‘Daddy,’ and it does two things, Rosa Mae,” the old man said. “It makes me proud, ’cause if I had been blessed with a child, I’d want her to be just like you. And it makes me . . . makes me responsible, too. A good father, he don’t judge. If there’s something you need, I help you. That’s all there is to that. I ain’t no preacher. Whatever you got yourself into—”

  “Oh, Daddy,” Rosa said, eyes shining with barely restrained tears, “it’s nothing like that. Nothing like you think. Can I come down to your office later, and just . . . talk?”

  “Sure you can, honey. We do it at lunchtime, all right?”

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 11:44

  * * *

  The dull-orange ’53 Oldsmobile pulled up in front of a fire-gutted building on Cardinal Street, barely inside Hawks territory. Five teenagers in black-and-gold jackets were lounging on the stone steps; three sitting, two standing.

  The front passenger door of the Oldsmobile opened, and a well-proportioned youth stepped onto the sidewalk. He was wearing a mustard-yellow satin shirt and black peg pants, saddle-stitched to match his shirt. The pants were sharply creased, billowing at the knee before tapering to a tight cuff as they broke over pointy-toed alligator-look shoes. Dark aviator-style sunglasses concealed his eyes.

  “Who’s Ace?” he asked.

  One of the standing Hawks pointed without speaking, recovering some of the face lost when their leader had not been recognized.

  “Let’s go,” Sunglasses said.

  The leader of the Hawks got to his feet. Slowly, making it clear he was not responding to a summons but accepting an invitation. As he started toward the Oldsmobile, two Hawks moved next to him, one on each side.

  “Just him,” Sunglasses said, pointing.

  “It’s all right,” Ace told the others. “There’s no room in there for any more of us, anyway.”

  Sunglasses opened the back door. A heavyset young man, dressed identically to Sunglasses, stepped out, gesturing with his head for Ace to climb in.

  The Hawks watched as the Oldsmobile pulled away, their leader sandwiched between two Gladiators in the back seat. Hog turned to Larry. “Wait’ll they see,” he said, nodding his head to notarize the promise.

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 11:56

  * * *

  “I’ll be seeing him tomorrow,” Shalare said into the phone.

  He listened for a few seconds, then said, “Yes, I know how important this is, Sean. I’m not a man who has to be told the same thing twice.”

  Another pause, then Shalare said, “You’ll know as soon as I do. Or as soon as I can get to a phone.”

  Shalare hung up. “Brian,” he said to the man seated across from him, “sometimes I wonder about some people.”

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 12:00

  * * *

  Dett awoke at noon. He brushed his teeth, then opened the brass canister and washed down several crimson flakes with two glasses of water, taken slowly and deliberately.

  From his closet, he selected a dove-gray suit, an unstarched white broadcloth shirt with French cuffs, and a blue silk tie. He placed all three on the bed, and looked at them critically for several minutes.

  From a small jewelry case, Dett removed a pair of silver cufflinks, centered with a square of lapis, and a pewter tie bar.

  Picking up the phone, he called the front desk.

  “Would I be able to get a pair of shoes shined?” he asked.

  “Of course, sir,” Carl answered. “Shall I send a boy to your room to collect them, or would you prefer—?”

  “If you’d send someone up, that would be great.”

  “Ten minutes,” Carl promised. “And you would need them back . . . ?”

  “In a couple of hours?”

  “Absolutely!”

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 12:22

  * * *

  Wedged between the two Gladiators in the back seat, Ace resisted the urge to touch the talisman concealed in his jacket. He was torn between relief that he hadn’t been searched and anger that the rival gang hadn’t even bothered.

  Sunglasses puffed on a cigarette, flicking the ashes out the open window. None of the other Gladiators smoked. Nobody offered Ace one.

  Instead of turning east, as Ace expected, the Oldsmobile crossed Lambert Avenue, motoring along slowly. Kings turf, Ace thought to himself. And they’re just driving through it, like it was theirs. He kept his hands on his thighs, hoping his expression showed how profoundly unimpressed he was.

  The Gladiators’ Oldsmobile did a leisurely circuit of the area, even driving right past the block of attached row houses on South Eighteenth, where the Kings had their clubhouse.

  Look at all the niggers, standing there on the corner like they owned it, Ace thought. If you had a machine gun, you could just mow them d
own, like cutting the grass.

  The Oldsmobile finally turned east, then headed back across Lambert, and into Gladiator territory. As the driver parked in front of an apartment building on Harrison, all four doors opened in unison, and the Gladiators stepped out. Ace slid across the seat cushion and followed, feeling the presence of the others surrounding him as he walked.

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 12:26

  * * *

  “Why are you always pulling stuff like that?” Dave Peterson asked his partner.

  “Like what?”

  “You know what I mean, Mack. Wisecracks and all.”

  “What are we doing here?” the older man asked, suddenly.

  “Here? You mean here, on surveillance? Or here, like . . . our purpose in life?”

  “Dave,” the older man said, wearily, “I thought we came to a gentlemen’s agreement on that stuff. I know you’re a good Christian. Hell, anyone who gets to listen to you for ten minutes knows that. And you, you know I’m a sinner, going straight to hell.”

  “I never said—”

  “Yeah, I know. Never mind. Look, what we’re doing here, we’re doing our job.”

  “You always say that.”

  “What else do you want me to say, kid?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “Why not? I’m old enough to be your father, aren’t I? Doesn’t that make you wonder?”

  “I don’t under—”

  “Come on. You know I’ve got more than thirty years on this job. I go back to the days when Capone was running things. So how come I don’t have an ‘SAC’ after my name? How come I’m partnered with a rookie?”

  “I . . . don’t know. I guess, maybe, to teach me some of the—”

  “You don’t know, but you’ve heard, haven’t you?”